


i fall on tragedy

by theviolonist



Category: The Hour
Genre: Character Study, F/F, Femslash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-03
Updated: 2013-06-03
Packaged: 2017-12-13 20:50:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,038
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/828723
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theviolonist/pseuds/theviolonist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"This isn't love," Marnie tells her the first time she fucks her, the heel of her hand pushing against her crotch. "This is an <i>affair</i>."</p>
            </blockquote>





	i fall on tragedy

i. 

"This isn't love," Marnie tells her the first time she fucks her, the heel of her hand pushing against her crotch. "This is an _affair_."

The woman turns her face into the pillow, groans, _yes_. Marnie takes a moment to savor the word: _My turn_ , she thinks, childishly vindictive. 

 

ii. 

Her name is Sadie, she's a painter and Marnie despises her for it. That's why she chose her, actually: she saw the flecks of paint, cadmium yellow in her hair, burgundy on her hands and cerulean in the crest of her throat, and she wrinkled her nose instinctively, repulsed by so much mess. 

Sadie was unmoving, smoking her cigarette over a backdrop of London Eye and fog. _Perfect,_ Marnie thought to herself. At least there was no risk of falling in love this time. 

 

iii.

Sadie is capricious. She wants to eat now, fuck now, sleep: her hands curl around Marnie's body and pry, insistent. She won't do wash the dishes until there's mold growing on them, and she lives in a tiny, crummy apartment in Soho, which Marnie visits everyday between one and five. 

"You're a bitch," Sadie says, but then she kisses Marnie, her mouth open and hot, and Marnie doesn't know what to think. 

She kisses back. 

 

iv. 

She _is_ a bitch. She's not a bitch like Bel Rowley, whose bitchiness is entirely comprised in her tendency to make bad choices while feeling horribly guilty about them, or like Sadie, who is a bitch because she's independent and stubborn. Marnie is a bitch because her eyes are like knives and she's not afraid to use them. She's cautious, but it's different.

Sadie says she likes it. She straddles Marnie and she says she's painting her, all in red - "an entire canvas of your gorgeous fucking face, you cunt." She'll put it on the wall. They'll fuck looking at it. 

Marnie doesn't say no. Marnie leaves the apartment that afternoon with paint under her nails for the first time. 

 

v. 

She's angry now. This was a foolproof plan, the perfect blend of revenge and fun, something for herself, a treat. Love is useless to Marnie Madden. Love is an inconvenience. 

"Are you okay?" Hector asks at dinner, his wrists turned upwards, trusting. It's ironic that he trusts her while he's cheating on her, but it makes sense, in a twisted sort of way. 

_Mind your business_ , Marnie thinks. _Mind your girlfriend, and I'll mind mine._ It's a funny image, both of them staring at their respective lovers, equally disconcerted. _Women_ , Marnie thinks about saying to him. He would understand. 

"Of course I'm fine," she says instead, and that's that.

 

vi.

"I love you," says Sadie. 

Marnie sighs and lights a cigarette. 

 

vii. 

In the end Marnie has one fatal flaw that does not fit a Victorian housewife: she likes love. She does, she likes falling in it, swimming in it, she likes the false lusciousness of it and she likes how frantic it gets. She likes the fevered fucking and the hand-holding. Marnie Madden likes love. Bummer.

And she gives himself over to it, of course she does, she lies on the ratty couch in her underwear and watches Sadie paint, eats her halfway dry tuna out of the can and lets herself be fingered in front of the window.

Sadie says, "Let's run away together," and Marnie laughs, says, "Later."

 

viii.

They don't run away together. 

They don't break up, either. There's no reason to. 

 

ix.

It feels like falling in love for the first time, even though it's lost some of its freshness in the process. Marnie manages to avoid the most obvious loopholes and secures herself a good enough deal. Sadie doesn't snore, and for all she's arrogant and bull-headed, she's also smart, funny and incredibly talented with her tongue.

Hector finds out somewhere in the process, but it doesn't amount to much more than an angry war of words, where both of them are acutely aware that they're playing pretend.

Marnie nestles in Sadie's lap and imagines Hector doing the same with Bel, feels that if she reached out her fingers would go through the mirror and tangle with his as they used to. She takes a sip of white wine, draws Sadie's head to eye level, her hair falling on Marnie's neck. 

"No," Marnie says softly, tenderly, and joins their lips in a kiss.

 

x. 

Let's see. 

The skin at the small of her back. She doesn't get paint there, ever; it's all smooth and white, baby skin. 

Her dislike for periodical newspapers, and the news in general. "They should report something happy once in a while," she sneers, and falls back on her novels. 

This irritating way she has of chucking her shoes as soon as they're inside, and not putting them back on until they leave the apartment. She says her feet need to breathe, which is ridiculous. 

How she kisses Marnie: she settles her palms on Marnie's face, covering her temples, her cheeks, her ears, as though there was a risk she might miss her aim. She doesn't.

Her cooking. Dreadful. She can't even make scrambled eggs. 

"Your Trojan prince." That's how she calls Hector. Some days it makes Marnie laugh, others it enrages her. Either way, it's oddly fitting. Except for the bravery and honor, that is. 

Her hair. Marnie doesn't think she's ever seen it in another state than tangled and messy, coarse ends sticking out of the black nest. ("You look like a witch." "Your witch." "Don't be daft.")

The way she looks at the sun every morning, like she's never seen it before.

Marnie lights another cigarette. This won't end well.

"This won't end well," she says out loud, but there's no one there, just her and that painting, where she smiles like she's never smiled at Hector, confident, impious.

Now she wishes she hadn't fallen in love, because she knows how this story goes: it will wreck her and stomp on her ashes, or even worse, grow tedious.

Oh well then, she thinks as she hears the rattle of the keys turning in the lock and the clock ticks five. Let it not be said that Marnie Madden doesn't believe in love.


End file.
